“I’m pleased to be standing here before you today. There’s been much rumour and innuendo over the past months. It’s my hope that I can put some minds at ease. In that regard I have some good and some bad news. Let’s start with the good, shall we? This “Old Man with the Bible” as it has been reported by some of you, rather carelessly I might add, as though it was in some way connected to the Death Car. I’m here to come clean. It was.” Livingstone turned and clicked at a junior detective standing in his shadow. “Ladies and Gentlemen… I’d like to introduce to you… Uncle Tom.”
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me?” Is that what you’re asking? It should be. Give it a moment. DCI Alan Livingstone was a brazen, big-balled, barefaced liar. But this ruse really took the biscuit. As he stood there, grinning from ear to ear while holding up a fireman’s dummy dressed like a fucking golliwog, his dishonesty had never been so profound. The man was creative. That’s about the best thing I can say for him. “You may have heard over recent months about several strange incidents in which Aborigines were found dead in suspicious circumstances. Circumstances somewhat similar to that of the Death Car. Uncle Tom, and several of his colleagues…” Livingstone gestured behind him to where several Major Crimes Detectives held up similarly offensive dummies. “They are the newest members of the Major Crimes Department here at Darlinghurst Road. They helped us, by testing our response times. These stories you’ve heard. They were merely training exercises. We placed them around Sydney, and then we followed strict protocols under the observation of an independent government regulator. I can tell you now, we passed each test with flying colours. That’s the good news.
“But I do have to address the fire at Harrington’s Brewery as well. That’s a sad, sad situation. My heart goes out to the families of the seven who tragically lost their lives.”
“DCI Livingstone,” a journalist interrupted, “Do you have any comment on the allegation that the brewery fire was tied to organised crime?”
“I do. Major Crimes and the Arson department have worked tirelessly and we believe the fire was a textbook example of arson. We are certain that it was started by the business’ proprietor in the hope of making a fraudulent insurance claim. As such, if anyone has information with regards to the whereabouts of former New South Wales Police detective James Harris, please step forward.”
Chapter 55
Autumn had hit Melbourne by the time the three men drove in from the north. And that can only mean one thing. Every imaginable weather condition all rolled into the space of twenty minutes. One moment it was pouring torrential rain and blowing a cold gale straight from the heart of Antarctica via the Bass Strait. The kind of freezing cold weather that felt like it was stripping the flesh off your body and pulverising your increasingly brittle bones. The next moment you were transported back to the height of the summer. Coats, gloves, and scarves flew off Melbournians. Rain evaporated from the cobbles. People took to the streets to rejoice in the last, lingering moments of a summer that would promptly be gone for a bitterly cold winter.
When Harris and Lescott walked into an Espresso bar on Bourke Street, Charlie waited outside. He didn’t know Melbourne. He didn’t know how the locals would take to him. And so, instead of trying his luck and being thrown out, he waited on the pavement.
“What are you doing?” Lescott popped his head out the door.
“I hate being told to wait outside.”
“Fuck that. This is Pellegrini’s. These are good people. They love their pasta and they want everyone to enjoy it. We’ll get you some ragu, put some meat on these bones of yours. Just don’t order the meat pie. They’re Italian. They don’t get it.”
Charlie took one last look at the street and whistled in appreciation. The traffic of both people and vehicles was unlike anything he’d ever seen. The buildings blocked out the sky in a way he’d never witnessed. In the middle of the Simpson Desert, and Darwin where he’d spent much of his childhood, the sky was bigger than the earth. But here, surrounded by sky-splitting buildings, man was taking over.
If the architecture was to his liking, the bitter taste of the black espresso and the rich veal ragu he feasted on were positively life-changing. He didn’t even know what animal a veal or a ragu came from. He simply didn’t care.
The café was old and furnished in wood from floor to ceiling. It was a beautiful antique of a place with old world charm and more personality than all of the pubs and clubs on Darlinghurst Road combined. Stools ran along the bar filled with happy customers. The bar itself was laden with cakes, pastas, pizzas, and pies. It smelled like Italian heaven. Lescott’s old man used to sit him on one of those stools when he was a kid, he’d stick him in front of a bowl of lasagne as big as his head and pick him up a few hours later, when he was done with his illegal business.
An Italian family worked behind the counter. A young man whispered sweet words to two beautiful girls over the counter. His father made coffee and looked over at his son with a smile. The boy’s mother stared disapprovingly. She shouted over at the boy in Italian. The daughter of the family wiped down tables out front and laughed at her lothario brother striking out as the girls walked off.
A thought had occurred to Charlie, “Where will I stay?”
“Fred’s,” Harris answered resoundingly, leaving little room for argument. When Lescott gave him a questioning look, Harris shrugged, “I live in a single room flat in a doss house above a brothel.”
Lescott nodded and looked at Charlie’s grubby old clothes, “Mrs Johnson from across the road is going to shit herself.”
“And do you live near a brothel?” Charlie asked curiously.
Lescott’s laughter was interrupted when he spotted the man they had come to see. A middle-aged Mediterranean fellow, in an expensive suit, with a pair of dead eyes. This man was Paulie Zambrotta, fresh off a trip from Sydney. He walked inside and took a seat at a table. Though the cafe was packed, there was always a table ready for Mr Zambrotta. The moment he sat down, the old Mediterranean chap rushed from behind the counter with an espresso and a plate of pasta. Long live the olive oil clichés; Italian gangsters prove them all true.
“Stick your hands in the air, Zambrotta. We’ve got you surrounded,” Lescott shouted over in jest.
Zambrotta looked up from his plate of food, he wasn’t laughing. The bodyguards around him put their hands in their pockets and waistbands to pull their guns. When he saw it was Lescott, he laughed. “Tell me officer, what’s my crime?” Zambrotta smiled.
“Well, that suit for one thing. The cologne for another.”
Zambrotta laughed and shook Lescott’s hand. “If I spent all my money on nice suits and fancy cologne, I wouldn’t have been able to buy you that big, old house in Sydney.”
“I bought that house with my own money,” Lescott corrected.
“Where did you get that money?”
“My old man.”
“Where did he get that money?”
“You,” Lescott said, tying a neat little bow on their exchange.
“I drove past there last week and knocked on the door… You weren’t around.”
“Been up in Alice looking into the murder of a couple of kids, amongst other things. Saw Craig Booth up there. He pointed me in the direction of a fella named Hoskins.”
At the mention of that name, Zambrotta dropped his fork with a clatter. His face dropped. “Some doors are better left unopened”
“Not this one.”
“He’s with the rest of the ingrates in hell.”
“He’s dead?”
Zambrotta shook his head, “Pentridge… They picked him up on a public disturbance thing and saw his outstanding warrants. He’ll never get out unless it’s in a box with rope burn on his throat.”
When the car pulled into the pavement outside Coburg’s Pentridge Prison, the three men opened their door.
“Charlie, you’re going to have to sit this one out. This is a police matter. I’m not even sure Harris will get inside
.”
When Lescott spoke the words, a bitter disappointment hit Charlie. He wanted to look the boy’s killer in the eyes. He wanted to spit on his face. He wanted to strangle the life out of him. Even then, Charlie felt death would be too good for the demon.
So, Charlie gazed out the window and up at the impregnable fortress that was Pentridge Prison. Silently, he wished ill health and bad fortune on the man inside those walls.
“Hoskins has been here on remand for three weeks. The charges are stacking up. At very least, I don’t think he’ll ever see the light of day. At most… Well, no one’s going to cry at his funeral.”
The Warden’s office at Pentridge was slowly filling with smoke as the prison’s chief administrator sucked away on his pipe. Harris and Lescott did their very best to ensure the three men contracted nicotine poisoning by chain-smoking cigarettes. The Warden was a hard man. He’d been carved out of stone. His jaw was undoubtedly that of an old boxer. His posture suggested he was a man who’d served. The way he spoke betrayed the fact that he had spent years surrounded by the worst men in the world. He was frightening because he needed to be.
“The other inmates don’t feel safe around him. The guards are scared of him.” The warden paused, “Personally, I won’t go near him. I’d suggest you adopt a similar strategy for self-preservation. If I had the space, I’d lock him in an empty wing and lose the key.” The Warden continued. “There was an incident last week with his bunkmate. Hoskins lost an eye, and many of his teeth. He still came off better.” The Warden shuddered. “His cellmate before that took his own life. He won’t be getting a third.”
“Three weeks?” Lescott turned to Harris. “So, he didn’t leave us that note. We knew that anyway. We were clutching at fucking straws.”
“Count yourselves lucky fellas. That’s one man you’re better off avoiding completely.”
“We should speak to him anyway. See if he can provide us with some kind of insight into the man we’re looking for.”
The Warden looked at the men across from him in disappointment. They’d entered Hell and were willingly offering themselves up for an audience with the Devil.
As the Warden led them through a corridor towards the interrogation room, he did so slowly. He made no secret of the fact he wanted them to change their minds, to think better of what they were about to expose themselves to. He wanted them to go back home, to put their children to bed, and have a dance and a fumble with their wives. But, for James Harris and Fred Lescott, this was all they had. “I’ll be behind the two-way glass. Just call out if you need a swift escape.” The Warden looked both men in the eyes to ensure they had heard him, “Also… Maybe don’t mention his height. Please. It’s not worth the trouble?”
“His height?” Harris asked Lescott under his breath as they sat on old aluminium chairs that scraped the concrete floor loudly as they moved.
“Of all the people we’ve spoken to about him, not one of them has failed to describe him as little.” Lescott shrugged.
Silence. Nerve-fraying, endless silence.
Until they heard the rattle of metal on concrete and the heavy dull thudding of feet. When the door opened and the guard led Hoskins into the room. Harris and Lescott looked at each other with a strange mixture of shock and disbelief. Though Hoskins was being led in wearing a hood, it did little to hide the fact he couldn’t have been taller than 4’10”.
The hood remained on while the guard attached Hoskin’s handcuffs to the table. He then did the same with the shackles upon his feet. The guard was sparing no time nor effort in securing the prisoner, dwarf or not. As the guards jangled with steel and keys, a low growling sound began rumbling under Hoskins’ hood. It terrified the guard. When it came to the time where the guard was ready to remove the prisoners’ hood, the man’s stomach failed him. Harris waved him off. When the man had left the room, Harris leaned over and snatched the hood from the dwarf’s head.
What lay beneath, was a shock of greasy black hair and burned skin. The burns, which covered as much of his skin as they could see, his face, his neck, his hands were old, yet still they held their heat. The scarring was angry and tinged red. It seemed Pentridge hadn’t yet had time to afford him an eye patch and so when the men looked at him, they could see into his skull. His one good eye was black and piercing. He was a scary, scary human being. For all the fear his appearance caused, it was his attitude that was the real horror. He was full of hate and devoid of inhibitions.
“I can smell your fear. It’s dripping from you like the scent of semen from a whore.” His voice was unique, it rose from the depths of his throat and burst out in a visceral burst.
“You’re all chained up sunshine. Save the scary dwarf act for your next cellmate.” Lescot turned to see Harris talking, and even he was unsettled. This was bravado.
“Do you take it in turns to beat each other?” Hoskins cackled. “Is it a sexual thing when you give each other a damn good thrashing?”
“I’m Detective Lescott of New South Wales Police’s Missing Person’s Squad. This is James Harris, he’s a Private Detective helping me with…” Lescott paused.
Hoskins rattled with his chains as he raised his hands and began twirling them around in a mock grand manner. “La-Di-Da.”
“We think you may be able to give us a little insight into the man we’re looking at. He’s shown similar… Tendencies to you.” Lescott continued. “As part of an ongoing investigation pertaining to the bodies of two unidentified children turning up in Sydney… We found ourselves in the Old Eastside of Alice Springs… In a house, behind a red door.”
Hoskins flashed a sick smile. “You found him? My little prince.”
The pair were sickened by the epithet, while Lescott remained professional, Harris gasped. “Like I said, we’re looking for a man in Sydney who has similar tendencies to you. We believe he’s spent time in Alice Springs, you may have come across him.
“When was the last time you came across someone like me?” Hoskins was practically erect by this entire affair. “I am without peers.”
“That’s not true.” Harris looked to turn the tables having already grown tired of the disturbing delight on Hoskins’ face. “After basic training in ‘42, I was given a weekend in London. I went to Leicester Square and I came upon a sideshow. Bearded ladies, juggling dwarves. The lot.” Lescott shot him a silencing glance. “Then, on the way over here… We passed a plant shop. And the window display… It was a bunch of little gnomes. I saw Doc, Grumpy, Dopey, Bashful, Happy, Sleepy and Sneezy there. I wondered where Dopey was. Here, it fucking seems. You’re not special. You’re a fucking trifle, treacle.”
“They’re dwarves.” Lescott corrected.
“What?” Harris snapped.
“You said gnomes. They’re dwarves.”
“Gnomes, dwarves, pixies… I don’t give a fuck.”
Hoskins smiled. “The big man finds his voice. Just as I was beginning to fall for the delicious charm of your alluring silence.” Hoskins was hedonistic. He was playing with them and taking great pleasure from it.
“We’ve come because we feel you can help us give us a clearer picture of our man’s profile.” Lescott tried to get the conversation back on track.
“No.”
Harris and Lescott glared across the table.
“No, I won’t talk to you. You smell of a happy childhood. But this one…” Hoskins looked at Harris, “But this one knows what it means to be born in fire.”
Lescott looked to Harris and shrugged, perhaps in antagonising the man he’d gained his respect.
“We want to know why someone would harm children… Innocents. Why they wouldn’t stop at harm, why they’d push through to degradation.”
“It’s simple really. Do unto them as they do unto you.” Hoskins smiled.
“You fucking idiot.”
“Excuse me?”
“I called you a fucking idiot. If you’re going to try to justify your insanity, don’t use a fucking misquote,” Ha
rris snapped. “At the Sermon on the Mount, Jesus said do unto others as you would have them do unto you.”
“Justify my insanity?” Hoskins sneered. “It’s not my words that justify my ‘insanity.’ It’s my life. Tell me. Were you wanted as a child? I’m sure you were. A big strapping man to carry on the family name. Me? I was thrown in a river by my father. I doubt you had much trouble fending off the local bullies in your neighbourhood. With big fists like that… They’d have steered clear of you. Me? They called me a freak. A gnome. They covered me in kerosene and they lit me from head to toe.
“They say children are the future? I watched them guffaw as the flames licked at my flesh. They poked me with sticks as my skin bubbled and melted away like the crackling of a Sunday roast. Is that the future? You can keep it.
“Wrapped up in bandages in hospital, I swore I would grow big and strong. I would become the wolf and not the sheep. I was reborn in that fire, my friends. I’ve never been the same since. As soon as I was strong enough. I killed my father. I threw a petrol bomb at him as he sat in his car. It’s a shame my mother and siblings were in there with him. But it was necessary. The children who burned me? They went the same way? Like marshmallows on a fucking bonfire. But that’s enough about me, Pom. Let’s talk about you. You have the scent of death upon you.”
“That’s right. Your mate Craig Booth said you had a funny fixation for death.” Harris looked over at Lescott who nodded. He’d lost much of his interest in the conversation. Hoskins was useless.
THE DEVIL IN THE RED DIRT: DIVIDED IN LIFE. UNIFIED IN MURDER Page 42
